


till we were both dead

by altun



Category: Gintama
Genre: M/M, Second-Person POV, a few years when I suddenly has this sudden urge to finish it, hello I'm back from my slumber, i forgot the exact arc see it's o l d, set after tendoshuu introduction but, set before the current anime season, sugi has feels, this is a long-lost work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altun/pseuds/altun
Summary: The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.-Friedrich Nietzsche





	till we were both dead

**Author's Note:**

> Just something that has been lurking menacingly in my fic file for a while.  
> Enjoy.

It's just the way that he is; this constant itch in the innermost corner of one Takasugi Shinsuke’s already beaten up, bled dry heart that ever-stubbornly refused to die out.

.  
.

.

  
It's his dead fish eyes, the heavy eyelids that won't budge from their half-closed state as he continued to dig into his bottomless nostril in every chance he can get.

  
"Samurai shouldn't do things half-heartedly. I will sleep with you. Let's go to sleep together." His little finger is still busy tweaking that nostril of his even when the boys from your school begin to run towards him in anger.

  
(That first impression irked you to no end, so much that it's the first thing you remembered about him.)

.

It's that perm hair, a curly mass of silver strands that is his source of pride and woe at the same time.

  
(You kept wondering how it would feel to run your fingers slowly through instead of yanking them harshly like you usually did.)

.

It's his voice, loud and high-pitched and unrefined every single time he tries to pick on you, making your ears ring every time his shrill laughs echo all around the _dojo_ when you lie on your back, body feels sore from head to toe and somehow you can feel something in your chest bursts as you rise up for the nth time on that day, gripping your _bokuto_ tighter and running and screaming towards him with unrestrained fervor because of the burn left by your bruised prideful young heart.

  
(But, somehow the burning always simmered in the end, leaving a warm, fuzzy feeling in your insides. It was, to your horror, not unlike the feeling you got when Shouyou's big, warm hand connected with the top of your head, ruffling it a little as a congratulatory gesture for getting the job done.)

.

"I bet runts like you have it easy at times like this. You can hide inside the can, after all."

  
It's in the middle of the war and he looks down at you (that’s some goddamn nerve he got there!), dead fish eyes becoming even duller than they already are with shadow casted on them. You let out a snort while inching your face closer to his, your unnaturally blazing olive eyes only distanced inches from his rust colored ones, "Trying to find an excuse for your inevitable defeat, huh?"

  
(You're secretly relieved that he's still the same immature brat that doesn't want to lose.

It reminded you that some things remained the same even in the middle of uncertainty.)

.

Both of you are trapped in the middle of amanto troops, fresh wounds marring the battle-roughened skin and tired muscles below. Blood trickling down your temple, and at that exact time you think that, maybe, your time has come.

  
"Gintoki, if I die, please take care of Sensei for me."

  
He doesn't move his broad back from your smaller one, but his legs and arms are already posed for battle.

  
"Then, as a fellow good-for-nothing, I would like to ask you for something."

  
A beat have passed, and he leaps away from you as you run with your blade unsheathed.

  
"Don't die."

  
He's still the same good-for-nothing that has a bigger heart than he's supposed to have.

  
(Still the same good-for-nothing that likes to ask for the impossible.)

.

"Gintoki, please..."

  
He raises his sword over his head. Your screams die out as all you could mutter is a single plea.

  
He doesn't even budge from his spot, legs firmly rooted on the ground forming a stance that he recognizes so well. His stomach turns and his sight is blurry.

  
"stop..."  
Shouyou's head falls flat on the ground.

  
You let out a scream.

  
(As you lunged at him, tight-roped and full of rage, your left vision blacked out.

  
The sight of his tear-stained face burned behind its blood-soaked eyelid.)

.

You can feel the crumpled soil beneath you, now soaked with blood from your stabbed innards. You can feel the shakujo blade embedded inside your body. You compare it to skewers that go through candied apples sold in festivals, some of the bright red coloured caramel coating dripping to your hands.

  
(Ah, now you got his sweet obsession. Idiocy is contagious, indeed.)

.

"But the one who understands how he feels better than anyone else in this world is me."

  
You hear the words despite the constant buzzings in your head, and your blood smeared lips curve upwards despite the grating sand below.

  
"The one that will both protect and cut down this guy is me."

  
You can feel bile rising to your throat as your feet morph into a battle stance, right hand yanking the bladed staff from your stomach mechanically and embeds it to the crow's left eye. Petty revenges always suit you best. Especially when served cold.

  
"Even when one falls here, one shall send you to hell."

  
You can feel his rust coloured eyes shift towards you as his lips morph into a weak smile. Despite your fading consciousness and throbbing pain on your remaining eye, you return the gaze weakly as post-adrenaline syndrome kicks in and both of the yato kids pull you and him away from the battle scene.

  
(Relief flooded your system and you fell into a dreamless sleep.)  
.

.

.

  
He looks down on you from above the fluffy giant dog, with that dull (yet somehow focused) stare that reminds you of a single moment long etched in your pieces of unfortunate memories you had had the misfortune of sharing with the silver haired man.

  
("Unfortunately, me, your alter ego, won't fall down."

  
There were pools of blood beneath his boots, and even bigger ones below your sandals. You secretly wondered which one of you would truly last, and whether any of you would be able to wake up at all after all of this ordeal passed.

  
Your head had never felt lighter than before and your eyelids began to stutter, but strangely enough, sleep is the very last thing on your list of things to do right now.)

  
"It's 246 wins and 246 losses.”

  
Both you and him pass each other in the middle of the battlefield, enemies falling from left and right and both of you stand atop of the pile of cold bodies.

  
(Broken down, rise up. Rinse, repeat. In the end, both you and him would always survive any catastrophe even when every single cells in your screamed incessantly, wishing for both you to just drop it and accept the cold, cruel fate that had always weighted down your trembling, yet stubbornly standing feet.  
You never listened to them, never did.

  
Not when you knew that he, that blasted good-for-nothing alter ego of yours, also walked that same laughably abstruse path somewhere in that blue-green planet that was half part your pride and joy, half part your pile of lifetime’s worth of suffering.)

  
"Next time, I'll settle the score."

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. I'm back. Hopefully for quite a long time.


End file.
